Voulez-Vous être My Valentine?

The world looks through rose-colored glasses in the weeks leading up to February 14th, and France is no exception. Around the time that Christmas decorations disappear in the "patisseries" and confectionary shops, they are quickly replaced by shiny hearts and red roses. Romantics be warned, however: finding a Valentine in Paris is not as easy as it may seem.

The French word for single, "célibataire", is a "faux ami" that caused me some consternation the first time I filled out my tax declaration to the Trésor Publique. I really didn't understand how my sex life, or lack thereof, was any business of the French government and I was shocked that it could affect my tax bracket. After my office's human resource department assured me that "célibataire" referred to nothing more than my marital status, I dutifully checked the box and decided to see how I could go about becoming un-célibataire in the famed city of love.

According to the INSEE, France's national statistics bureau, over one-third of the population living in and around Paris is single. Despite this surplus of available men and women, it's incredibly hard to meet anyone in Paris, much less interesting people of the opposite sex. This is due in large part to the city's concentric social circles and the strict separation between professional and private life. If you're a true Parisian, your pals are likely to be the ones you've known since nursery school, a fairly closed and hard-to-crack group, thus making it difficult even for natives to find a sweetie.

For American expatriates, the challenge is even greater. No matter how many stories are out there about the woman who fell in love after a dashing Frenchman stopped her in the street, the fact is that the better integrated you are, the less likely this scenario is to happen. (One notable exception is a perfectly bilingual friend of mine who routinely fights off men in public places, a blonde who happens to be a dead-ringer for Gwenyth Paltrow - go figure.)

As much as the French decry the American cultural invasion that influences everything from their venerable culinary history to the beloved film industry, Parisians seem to be taking a leaf out of our book, at least when it comes to finding love. Slowly but surely, several establishments are beginning to cater to the city's great untapped resource. With everything from single's nights popping up in bars to shops where lonely hearts identify themselves with pink grocery baskets, the French are turning to American-style pragmatism in order to find that special someone.

Although I would be spending this particular February 14th with my permanent Valentine, my husband of two years, I was on the lookout for possible amorous encounters for my recently single friend Véronique. The opportunity came in the form of some creative marketing from the Galeries Lafayette, which was hosting a "Soirée des Célibataires", a singles' night guaranteed to match you with your soul mate while squeezing in a little shopping.

Intrigued by the concept of hundreds of Parisians thrown together with the sole purpose of pairing up, my married friend Heather and I convinced Véronique to be our token "célibataire" guinea pig for the evening. By seven o'clock on Thursday, we found ourselves tripping along the Boulevard Haussmann to the exceptional nocturnal opening of the well-known department store.

Covered by the French media and even CNN as a completely novel concept in its first year (novel to French society, at any rate), the Galeries Lafayette was counting on a blockbuster turnout for its second-annual Valentine's fête. The place already hopping when we arrived at 7:00 and love was definitely in the air. Young women were handing out half-hearts on a string designed to dangle around the neck, inviting other participants to investigate if their own pieces of heart matched up. Armed with our badges "d'amour", we went to discover what the night had in store for us.

A pamphlet outlined different activities ranging from free makeovers to consultations with fortune-tellers. By this time, the store was packed with men and women of all ages. We attempted to pass by the popular "Murs de Rencontres", a wall where you could post a freshly developed Polaroid of yourself and examine other photos for a Valentine that caught your eye, but there was absolutely no room to move. Instead, we moved to the café on the top floor to check out the latest phenomenon imported from the United States, "le speed dating".

The concept is simple: seven women meet seven men and have seven minutes to seduce each one. When time is called, each person selects whom they would like to see again and if any two match up, a later rendezvous is planned. I was curious how speed dating would be perceived in France, as it appears to violate all principles of the French mating dance. Not only does it involve talking to someone you have no prior connection with, it's quick, businesslike, and slightly anonymous, none of which appeals to the French mentality when looking for true love as opposed to Mr. or Ms. Right Now.

For a mere 35 euros and a little bit of convincing, I sent Véronique, the perfect double agent, to uncover the sordid details of French speed dating. If she happened to find a Valentine in the process, so much the better. Equipped with a bottle of the Galeries Lafayette's finest Côtes du Rhône, Heather and I settled in a corner of the café to observe the ritual.

Managed by a French outfit called Select and Perfect, the slogan for the evening was "entrez dans le jeu!" (get into the game!). Over glasses of orange juice ringed with pink sugar, attractive people falling into the 25 to 35-year-old category were all smiles, chatting and flirting with their counterparts. We gave Véronique a thumbs-up as a nice-looking young man approached and slid into the seat opposite her. Although we couldn't hear the conversation, he seemed very impressed with what he saw.

During the next seven minutes, Heather and I struck up a conversation with Matthias, one of the Select and Perfect coordinators. According to him, even though the program had seemed foreign to the French at first, it boasted over 400 couples who had hooked up thanks to speed dating. The gatherings normally took place in more intimate locales like trendy bars or restaurants, he assured us, noting the unflattering fluorescent lighting in the department store's café.

As the ringing gong signaled the end of the mini-date and the coordinators shepherded the group to their next meeting, a handsome man of about thirty-five dashed up to our table and pulled up a chair, introducing himself as Antoine. Blushing a deep shade of red, I explained that neither Heather or myself had "entrée dans le jeu" and weren't on the speed dating market.

"Oh, I don't mind," he said, "I just wanted to talk to some women who are normal," eyes twinkling. "You guys are over here laughing and having fun, while all these women are asking how much money I make and what kind of car I drive," he sighed. This struck me as rather odd, as in the course of usual French conversation, these kinds of direct questions are considered to be in extremely bad taste. "I want a woman to lean over and tell me that I'm 'l'homme de sa vie'," he intoned dramatically, obviously a romantic at heart.

We consoled Antoine the best we could, pointing out that seven minutes was a relatively short amount of time to find, confirm, and announce the love of one's life. Wishing him luck as he rushed off to his next "rencontre", I wondered if this kind of lightning-bolt from above was possible in the world of Parisian speed dating.

By this time our double agent had completed quite a few interviews and a group of men hovered around her as they made their way to other tables, but one particular young man with floppy brown hair, blue eyes, and a lopsided grin hadn't made it to Véronique yet. We pleaded with Matthias to intervene and subtly guide our favorite speed dater towards our friend, although he had already told us that the sequence was pre-defined and couldn't be changed.

However, as the gong sounded once more and Heather and I grumbled, we noticed Matthias steer Floppy Hair to Véronique and within seconds they were laughing and joking. This final meeting marked the end of the speed dating experience, so we whisked her off for a debrief and a much-deserved glass of champagne.

"Who'd you pick?" we demanded. Much to our chagrin, she hadn't checked a single guy whom she'd like to see again, undoubtedly leaving a wake of broken hearts in the Galeries Lafayette café. Although Floppy Hair was adorable, he was also only twenty-six and a struggling musician, not her style. Other guys were serial speed daters, something she found a bit weird, or else they were just plain boring.

As Véronique described her "dates", we quickly learned that women weren't the only ones asking the blunt questions. As she explained the details of her humanitarian job which frequently took her to Africa for weeks on end, one man asked her if she wanted to have a family and if her work would prevent her from being a good mother to her children. Needless to say, this guy had a black mark against him before even two of the requisite seven minutes were up.

In the end, I think Véronique is fundamentally too French for speed dating to work for her. She loves the intricacies of getting to know people, something you can't explore in a few minutes, always fearful of time being called. Speed dating is the equivalent of a fast-food value menu, while Véronique appreciates the full four-course meal, aperitifs and coffee included.